


You Never Stop Playing

by TentativeTreason



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), related - Fandom
Genre: Arya-centric, Assassin Arya, BAMF Arya Stark, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Mentions of Faceless Men Training, Minor Character Death, POV Jon Snow, Skill reveal, The Faceless Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-01-03 16:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TentativeTreason/pseuds/TentativeTreason
Summary: Jon slowly learns about Arya’s past, from familiar faces and divulged stories.Ranges from her new language skills to her fighting prowess.And he begins to wonder, how does Arya seem to know every person in both Westeros and Essos?





	1. What Happens When You See Me Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first 100 words or so are just to set the scene and timeline. The rest of the story fits in and around canon of the start of Season 8. But becomes AU (i.e. no burning of King’s Landing).
> 
> Kudos, comments and/or reviews are welcome. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Jon was returning home from his voyage to Dragonstone with two armies at his back, a mix of both Unsullied and Dothraki, along with two dragons. He was returning home with mounds upon mounds of dragon glass. He was, also, returned home bereft of a crown.

He had had an inkling which Sansa might focus on first; since her own return home, her first and, seemingly, only priority was freedom and prosperity for the North.

He knew that coming back to Winterfell with the Targaryen Queen may cause tension, but he remained hopeful; coming back would also mean seeing Arya, his favourite sibling, who he hadn’t seen she was nine summers old.

She would be one and six now, nearly a woman grown. He had missed her growing up. He didn’t even know how she’d survived, the letter he’d received had offered no explanation beyond her return.

Riding into Winterfell, his home, he he searched the rows of people, scanning for any sign of her.

Arya wasn’t there.

Bran was.

His heart felt full in a way that could only be compared with the moment he clapped eyes on Sansa on the Wall. 

He hurried forwards, his gloved hands reached out to Bran, and he kissed his younger brother on the forehead.

“Look at you,” His voice breaking as he spoke, “You’re a man.”

“Almost.” 

The words were spoken with little reaction, as though Bran wasn’t just reunited with a brother he hadn’t seen in nearly eight years.

Disconcerted, he glanced up at Sansa only to see a minute smirk on her face, one which he was coming to know as her ‘I know something you don’t’ smirk.

As he came forwards, she opened her arms to him, accepting his hug.

His first words to Sansa, upon returning, were, “Where’s Arya?”

His voice was rough and desperate, aching to see the sister he thought he’d lost summers ago.

“Lurking, somewhere.”

Sansa’s voice let nothing show, tone clipped.

He caught her eyes. There he saw a promise of an explanation, one he hoped he’d receive sooner rather than later. 

**** 

Jon finally saw Arya. 

It had been a day since he’d arrived and he hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of her, until now. 

He knew she had still been in Winterfell because of _the whispering._ In the last 24 hours he had heard rumours upon rumours of her adventures through the years. There were tall tales that spoke of her hiding out in the woods with savages, of her travelling East to gather foreign armies, or even of her training to become an assassin. He honestly didn’t know which sounded more outlandish to him. He couldn’t distinguish between what was true and what wasn’t, but even if he could he would rather hear it from her. 

And finally he had found her.

It was the early hours of the morning, sometime before dawn, when he spotted her outside with two Unsullied.

The three of them looked slightly dishevelled and were holding swords loosely in their palms. He hastened, thinking there had been an incident, but slowed down as he got closer; neither of the Unsullied appeared threatening. In fact, it appeared as though they’d finished sparring together.

He knew he should alert them to his presence, that he shouldn’t spy... but she had been avoiding him. How else was he supposed to see her? Maybe she thought he wasn’t the same anymore, he had gone from Bastard born son to King in the North, maybe she thought he had become someone he wasn’t.

From where he was stood on the crenelated ramparts above, he could make out the glistening handle of _Needle_ in Arya’s hand.

His fear eased.

Despite not having spoken to her, or even seen her properly for years, it comforted him to know that something of him had always been with her; it gave him hope. 

Focusing on the interaction before him, he could make out the sound of her talking quietly to them.

The talking wasn’t unusual in itself; Arya had always made odd friendships in high and low places, what made him pause, however, was the foreign language that she was speaking, for it was not a language spoken anywhere in Westeros.It sounded almost like High Valerian.

He strained his ears as Arya bowed to the two Unsullied and said two words.

“Valar Morghulis.”

The two Unsullied replied in sync.

“Valar Dohaeris.”

He remained hidden on the ramparts, watching the exchange.

Maybe the outlandish claims that she’d travelled East to amass foreign armies wasn’t as unbelievable as he thought.

****

As he turned back towards the main hall, Arya looked up at his retreating figure.

Arya knew Jon had seen her, had been watching her. She could sense him. Yet another of her talents that she owed to her time at the House of Black and White. 

She had thought the House of Black and White had beaten fear out of her and they had, in a way; she wasn’t frightened of Death, like most other people. In fact, she had served Death many times and devoted herself to the Many Face God’s service. But fear crept into her life in other ways.

She knew that she feared him seeing her again and not recognising the woman she had become. Maybe, if he knew all that she had done, he would scorn her or hate her and she knew she couldn’t bare it. 

So she was showing him how she’d changed, bit by bit, hoping he’d understand how she’d needed to adapt and maybe one day she’d explain why.

There was still so much about her that he didn’t know.

****

It hadn’t been his first thought, but at the end of his first full day back in Winterfell, Jon couldn’t help but wonder, _where is Petyr Baelish?_

The Lord’s absence made Jon uneasy; it usually meant the man was skulking around, scheming.

At dinner that night, sat at the high table, he tried to search him out. The room was full, men and women feasting and drinking, their raucous laughter filling the room. There were still Men of the Vale scattered around there room, so Littlefinger couldn’t have left, and yet the Lord of the Vale was mysteriously absent.

“Sansa.”

Sat next to him, Sansa glanced up. Her eyed flickered behind him to where Lord Tyrion, Jorah Mormont and Daenerys sat, before she focused on his face.

“Yes, brother?”

“Where is Lord Baelish?”

Sansa’s hands stilled.

She put the cutlery down. She paused before speaking, a fact which bothered Jon, as he didn’t know if what she said was going to be a well-crafted evasion or not.

“Baelish was charged with treason and for the murder of our Aunt Lysa. He was executed a week after you left.”

“_What?!”_ Jon half whispered, half yelled, trying not to alert the rest of the hall.

While he hadn’t gained the attention of the Lords and Ladies on the lower tables, he had effectively garnered the attention of the three to his left. 

“Petyr Baelish?” Daenerys questioned, glancing at Jorah and Tyrion as she did. “Is he not the current Lord of the Vale?”

Sansa smiled coldly in response, though her eyes remained on Jon’s face, “As he is dead, I don’t think he can be Lord of anything.” 

Tyrion choked loudly on his wine. 

Jon ignored Tyrion’s spluttering and cut in before Daenerys could begin a public battle of words. “Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

Sansa had sent letters while he had been in Dragonstone, but not one had been about Petyr Baelish’s sudden demise. He felt almost affronted at the secrecy. _Why had Sansa felt the need to keep this a secret from me?_

He thought about the threat he’d given to Littlefinger before he’d left, and his worry increased, “He didn’t _do_ anything, did he?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “No, Brienne wouldn’t have let him get near me like that.” Jon breathed out, knowing what little he did of Brienne of Tarth, he knew that to be true. ”There was just no need to inform you. We dealt with the matter and with the Soldiers of the Vale, so there was no mutiny and the issue was settled. Besides, I didn’t know if the scroll would be read by unsavoury sorts.”

Ignoring the pointed jab at Daenerys, Jon soldiered on. “I would have thought you’d wait for me to come back and execute him. Don’t you remember what Father always said? ‘The man who passes the sentence should always swi-‘“

“I remember.” Sansa cut through, impatiently. She did not need the unnecessary reminder of their late Father’s advice.

“Then who exe-“ 

“Arya did.”

Jon froze. His mind unable to comprehend what Sansa had just said. _Arya had killed a man. She had killed a man in cold blood. His little sister had-_

Anger like he’d never known filled him, “How could you make her-“

“I didn’t make her do _anything_.” Sansa interrupted sharply, “She is not the little girl you remember, Jon. She’s lived a hard life. She’s learnt how to defend herself and has opinions on what she feels she must do to defend her family. Or what’s left of it.”

He felt cold. He knew that this world was cruel. His relief at hearing she had been found alive had been diminished when he thought of what she might have gone through. _What life had she led to be able to execute someone without issue? How many men had she had to kill to be back home now?_

“She wanted to avenge her family, Jon. You can’t say that you wouldn’t do the same.” 

Maybe he didn’t want to know what she’d been through... but he knew that was a lie. No matter what Arya had done, she was back home and that was all that mattered. 

“No,” He replied, “I can’t.” 

Two tables away, a servant girl sat, her face angled towards the food in front of her.

Arya was hiding in plain sight. Her heart beating fast. If Jon finding out that she had killed Petyr Baelish wasn’t enough to scare him away, then there was hope. 

Maybe it was time to see her brother.

****

Arya followed him into the Godswood.

She avoided his question of how she’d snuck up on him with her own question. His answer that he hadn’t survived a knife through his heart sent shivers down her. He had met Death and had told the Many Faced God ‘_Not Today_’, just like Syrio Forel had told her to do all those years ago. 

When he’d asked if she had ever used Needle, she evaded again. 

“Once or twice.” She’d responded.

The irony of someone asking a trained assassin if they’d ever used their weapon wasn’t lost on her.

Finally, after hugging they sat down together in the Godswood, like they had as children, hiding from a Septor or their Lord Father. 

The wind whistled around them, bristling against the red leaves, and the snow fluttered softly in the air.

Arya took the opportunity to turn her assessing gaze onto her brother.

He wore the clothes of Winterfell, a Direwolf emblem displayed proudly on his chest, something which her Lady Mother would never have allowed _before_. The Direwolf stitching was reminiscent of those that now adorned Sansa’s clothing.

_Sansa made it for him. _It soothed her, to know that Jon and Sansa got on now as adults, like they never did when they were younger. That they had both matured enough to forgive each other for any past wrongdoings.

Looking beyond his clothes, she took in his face. It was older and more defined. His face had lost any childish look, it had filled out and become more defined. He’d picked up a number of scars over the years, small ones that if she hadn’t been trained to look for she might’ve missed. He looked the same, but different.

“You never used to be quiet.”

She shrugged, her face remaining indifferent, so unlike the emotional child he’d once known.

“I’ve changed.” 

“What happened? Where were you before?”

Arya shifted, she knew she owed him an explanation, no matter how brief, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. ‘_I became a trained assassin’_ wasn’t quite something you just blurted out. 

“You first.”

Jon grinned at her, enjoying being bossed around by his younger sister once more.

“Only if you promise to do the same.”

Arya return his mirth, nodding once. “I will.”

He paused, trying to think where to begin. Thinking of the past few years, both the highs and lows, brought forward memories of all those he’d lost along the way.

“The Night’s Watch wasn’t anything like we spoke about before I left. You said it would be fighting and war, and I said it would be a noble cause, remember? ... But it wasn’t. It was a dumping ground for criminals, murderers and rapists, you name it they were there. I made friends, eventually, they helped me when I was at my lowest, and I owe them for that.”

Arya listened attentively, glad that she was finally learning of Jon’s life over the past few years.

“We went beyond the Wall,” Arya, opened her mouth, millions of questions on her lips but stopped when she saw the somber expression on his face. ”I faced the White Walkers. At the Fist of the First Men and at Hardholm. I _saw_ the threat they hold. Both times. It’s why I chose to support the Queen. We need her, _we need her dragons_. You have to understand.”

“What were they like? The White Walkers, I mean.”

He paused, a chill finding its way into his chest. “They are a far greater force then we can ever hope to be. They are Death incarnate.”

He breathed out slowly, seeing Arya doing the same. He regretted his honesty, the moment he saw the impact his words had. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“ 

“Death is a gift, one which we all receive eventually.”

Her voice was flat. He tilted his head, trying to get a better look at her expression, but that too was empty.

And then she blinked and it was as if she had put on a mask, she was smiling ruefully at him. The sudden shift in mood was eerie, but it was better than the emptiness that was on her face before.

Breaking the silence he started, “It’s your turn.”

“_What?!_ You barely told me anything.” Arya retorted indignantly. She flicked some snow from her winter jacket into his face, laughing at his expression as he reared back.

“I gave you an overview, you little-“

He moved to flick snow back at her, only for her to swiftly duck out the way, _impressive_.

“Fine, but you only get an overview as well.”

She paused, shivering a moment. It was times like these that she was reminded of how long it had been since she’d felt snow. She’d spent so long in the sun in Braavos, it was as if her body didn’t know how to acclimatise to the snow anymore.

She felt, rather than saw Jon’s concerned gaze. 

“I was there, you know, the day they took Father’s head. I was watching from the statue of Baelor.”

She spoke with little emotion, as though they were discussing what to have for breakfast. He didn’t know whether she was doing it to try and lessen the horror of the statement for his benefit.

“Arya, I-“

“Don’t worry, I didn’t _see_ it. Yoren stopped me from seeing it. But I heard it, Sansa screaming, Joffrey shouting and the crowds chanting for Father’s head.”

Jon sucked in a breath, he had never thought of his sister’s actually _seeing_ their Father’s execution. It hadn’t crossed his mind that they would have done and how it might have effected them.

He reached out to hold Arya’s hand, she let him. 

“Yoren took me, cut my hair off and disguised me as a boy. Said he would take me North to Winterfell or to the Night’s Watch. But Lannister soldiers found us. They took us to Harrenhal.”

Jon had heard of Harrenhal, those that spoke of it in the Night’s Watch had often claimed it was the place of nightmares. They’d told him of the barren conditions, the forced manual labour, the _torture_. They’d spoken of how the soldiers there had treated people, especially women. The thought that someone could have taken advantage of Arya in that manner hurt him like a dagger to the heart, and, of all people, he’d know about that. 

“Arya, no-one _hurt_ you while you were there, did they?”

“You mean, did they rape me?”

Jon flinched back at the thought, he fists clenching. 

“No, they thought I was a boy, so I was safe.” Jon’s chest loosened, grateful for the small mercies.

Arya pondered how much to tell Jon, but ultimately knew that this wasn’t the time to tell him about Jaqen.“I managed to escape, with a couple of friends, but then the Brotherhood caught me. They wanted to ransom me off to Mother and Robb. I ran away but then the Hound caught me.”

“He took me to the Twins.” She rushed through it, knowing how he’d react.

“_No_.” Jon was horrified. “You didn’t-“ 

Unable to lessen the blown, she spoke quickly. “They sewed Grey Wind’s head on Robb’s body and paraded him around the town.”

He felt sick. Arya had been but ten summers when she had seen these atrocities, he couldn’t imagine how she had had got through it all sound of mind.

“The Hound stopped me from going after them, he saved me. He then took me to the Eyrie, but Aunt Lysa was dead by then. We were found by Brienne of Tarth. She and the Hound fought for me and I ran. And I made my way back home.”

“Brienne told us of your encounter with her, that was three years ago. Where were you for the other three years?!”

“Maybe I’ll tell you the rest of my story, when you tell me the rest of yours.”

He couldn’t argue her logic, but huffed either way.

“Thank you, Arya, for telling me.”

They exchanged subdued smiles, finally enjoying the feeling of having their favourite sibling back in their lives again.

“Come on, let’s go inside. I’m sure there’ll be supper soon.”

Arm in arm, Jon and Arya walked back together. Jon knew she hadn’t told him everything, just like he hadn’t told her everything about Ygritte, or being killed by his men and having to execute them in return, but for now it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be 2 more chapters after this. They will cover a lot of other parts of Arya’s past (i.e. her fighting skills, her List, Gendry and more).
> 
> Please read and review.


	2. What You Learn When You’re Always Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon asks for help learning more about Arya. And a surprise interaction has him questioning how Arya knows a certain blacksmith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback for my first chapter, I really appreciate it.
> 
> Kudos, comments and/or reviews are welcome.
> 
> Enjoy.

Getting to finally talk to Arya did little to satisfying Jon’s curiosity, it had just ignited a need to know more. He’d taken to watching her as much as he could, trying to learn what he could about her life before.

What he knew so far:

Arya could speak a number of languages. He had seen her talking to Dothraki, Unsullied soldiers and Daenerys’ translator Missandei each in a different language. When asked about it Missandei claimed they were the languages spoken in Essos and the Free cities. So he’d surmised Arya had spent at least some of the last few years across the Narrow Sea, which explained her recent susceptibility to the cold, though she’d tried to hide it.

Next, from what Arya had told him, she had been saved by Yoren of the Night’s Watch and travelled with Wall-bound recruits. She had been captured by the Lannisters and taken to Harrenhal, but escaped. She had been captured by the Brotherhood without banners, but escaped. She’d been captured by the Hound, but escaped. But not before she had seen the aftermath of the so-called Red Wedding. 

But there were three years of her life missing. He needed to know more, more about the life of his dearest little sister.

So, he decided to try to subtly ask around. She had become close with Sansa, he knew, so he would start there. He wanted to know it all, he was sick of knowing nothing.

****

Jon had invited Sansa for a private dinner, her face when he’d asked her gave him the impression that she knew what it was about, though he couldn’t be sure.

They sat at the table by the fire, hot food in bowls before them. The sound of the flames flickering filling the room.

Unsure of where to begin, Jon procrastinated. “How has the food and supply gathering going?”

Sansa gave him an unimpressed look, but answered politely. “It is getting better, word has been spreading ever since the Dothraki hoard and Unsullied arrived that Winterfell is the safest place in the North. People having been arriving by the hour, all with as much food and stock as they could carry.”

“How many people are we suppor-“

“Jon, what is this really about?” Sansa fixed him with a stern look, “You haven’t once asked about the management of Winterfell or stock since you arrived. And you are definitely not interested enough in it to arrange a private dinner solely to discuss the matter. So, what do you want to know?”

Jon looked down at his steak and kidney pie, shame-facedly. “Sorry.”

Sansa sighed, pushing away her own plate. “Just ask what you want to ask.”

“It’s Arya.”

“What about her?”

“She won’t tell me where she’s been the past few years and I know you and her have become close, I want to know what you know. I need to know.”

Sansa internally debated what to say, she admittedly knew more about their sister’s life than their brother did; the bag of faces under Arya’s bed alone still gave her nightmares, even though the reveal was set up for Littlefinger to overhear. But Jon was family, he deserved to know, anything that could better help, after all: _‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives’._

“I know she lived in Braavos, across the Narrow Sea. She told me she lived there while training to be a Faceless Man.”

While he understood all the words in the sentence separately, that did little to help him decipher the meaning. “A Faceless Man, what does that even mean?”

“From what Bran told me, they’re an assassin’s guild. They take only the best and serve the ‘Many Faced God’, which they believe is Death, by killing those they’ve been paid to. They can change their faces to look like anyone. Arya can do it...I-I’ve seen Arya’s faces.” 

Jon felt his entire world spin on it’s axis. “You’re-You’re trying to tell me that our _little sister_ became _an assassin_?!”

He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. In his mind Arya was still the rosy cheeked, mischievous girl who would steal arrows to practice shooting at targets.

Sansa evidently disagreed, shooting him a disbelieving look back.

“You really find it so difficult to believe? Have you not seen Arya fight recently? She defeated Brienne of Tarth in combat within her first five seconds.” 

His mind was racing; he had not, in fact, seen Arya fight since he’d been home. However, his mind went back to their most recent interactions, examining each one meticulously: their first reunion, how she had managed to sneak up on him and how quiet she’d been. He’d seen how quickly she’d dodged the snow he’d thrown at her, though he’d dismissed it at the time. Or even how he’d seen her with two unsullied that first night. He had assumed they were teaching her how to fight, she’d always been curious after all, but thinking back to their positioning, the way they were angled was as though they had _both_ been fighting her simultaneously.

“How else do you think she killed the Freys? How do you think she was planning to finish her List?”

He couldn’t breath. “You’re saying _Arya_ killed the Freys?”

Sensing Jon’s loosening grip on reality, she reached out to hold his hand. “Jon, I know it’s not what you wanted to hear but Arya has been trying to protect our family. She went after people who’ve hurt us.”

“I-I don’t.” Trying to focus, all of the new information swirling in his head. “What List?”

“She has a List of people she’s going to kill.”

Silence pervaded the room at that. 

Looking at Sansa, he could tell she was uneasy, though she had evidently had longer to come to terms with all this than he had. 

“Who’s on the List?”

“I don’t know. I know Joffery was. Maybe Cersei? The Freys were. Bran would know more... Jon, I know this is a lot. But Arya loves you, loves us, she wouldn’t hurt us. She’s our Pack.”

Startled, Jon shook his head, “I know she loves us. Of course she does, she’s _our sister_. I’m just struggling with the fact that my _little sister_ has killed people.”

Sansa laughed.

It was a bitter laugh that echoed around the small room.

Sansa leaned on the table, looking directly into his eyes. “Jon, _you’ve_ killed people. Gods, even _I’ve_ killed someone. I don’t think that’s what you should focus on. If it’s the potentially killing innocent people, you should ask yourself, why is Arya here now and not still in Braavos with them?” 

With that, Sansa scrapped back her chair. She moved to the doorway, he shoes pattering on the stone floor. She turned back and said, “Arya did what she did to survive. Just like the rest of us.”

With that, Sansa stepped out of the room, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts as he tried to make sense of all that he’d been told. 

What disturbed him the most was not that his his sister had been an assassin, although that mental breakdown could be for another time, it was that Arya had thought she couldn’t tell him herself. This didn’t change anything, not really, he still wanted to know more... he just knew he had to be more prepared for what he might find.

****

Jon found Arya the next day. She was in the courtyard with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne.

He tried not to think about any of the new information he knew, as he saw her with a wooden staff in her hand, in a battle stance facing Podrick, who held his own wooden sword.

He smiled as she spotted him, but he mustn’t have been very convincing as she frowned in response. Ignoring the reaction, he moved to lean against the wood beams, clearly indicating his intention to stay.

Still frowning, Arya returned her attention to the man in front of her. “You aren’t holding the sword right.”

“What do you mean? I’m holding it like I would any other weapon.”

In two twirls, Arya had disarmed Podrick, his wooden weapon lay uselessly on the ground and Arya’s own staff lay at the tip of his throat.

“The steel must be part of your arm, can you drop part of your arm?”

Podrick smiled, exhilarated, and moved to pick up his weapon. Jon found himself watching Brienne as well; he could tell that he wasn’t that only one interested in Arya’s teaching style. It spoke volumes of the people who taught her, the words were tumbling out her lips in a different cadence, as though she was repeating words back to them. _Interesting_.

She waits for Podrick to pick up his weapon, before beginning again. She moved like a dancer, dodging Podrick’s attempt to hit her with ease. 

She swiped fast, like a viper, spinning the staff in her hands with a speed he hadn’t seen before. 

Podrick was struck round the face, falling to the floor with the motion.

“Stop, this is supposed top be training!” Brienne rushed forwards, helping Podrick up. “I thought you weren’t going to hurt him.”

“Every hurt is a lesson and every lesson makes you better.”

Brienne tilted Podrick’s face, a bruise was blooming and a red cut lay where her staff had struck. Turning back to Arya, “Surely, my lady, you could teach him _without_ beating him mindlessly with your staff. I doubt he’ll learn much like that.”

“It’s how I learnt.” Brienne face fell, her expression morphing into a horrified one. Jon knew without looking that his own mirrored it. _Had the Faceless Men really beaten her with sticks until she could fight back?_

“My lady,” Podrick spoke, addressing Brienne softly,. She rolled her eyes but didn’t otherwise disagree with his phrasing, “It’s fine, I _want_ to learn. And if I become half as good as Lady Stark here, it would be a blessing from the Gods themselves.”

Arya looked over at Podrick, her expression gave nothing away but Jon got the distinct impression that she was pleased.

Podrick re-took the fighting stance, ignoring the drip of blood from his cheek and nodded at Arya.

“Again, my Lady.” 

****

People were flooding into the keep of Winterfell. They knew the Long Knight was upon them, mere days away at best.

Jon was in the courtyard helping to direct the influx of people to the correct areas when he heard a shout from the crowd. 

“Arry!”

He didn’t know what made him look around but he was glad he did. He caught sight of a short, round boy in an apron carrying a heavy stack of flour and other assorted ingredients. He was arriving with the people of Winter Town. Jon didn’t recognise him and the boy, from only the one word and his look, didn’t strike him as a Northerner. That wasn’t what made him grateful that he’d paid attention; it was the responding shout from behind him that did.

“Hotpie!” 

He contained his surprise as Arya moved forwards and embraced the boy, uncaring of the people around her.

Releasing the boy from her embrace, she smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that was rare on Arya’s face these days. “You’re here.” 

“I always wanted to come to Winterhell. And the guards who passed through said we’d be safe here. I wanted to come to give you this, you liked the last one I gave to you.” Rustling through his bag, the boy found a small cloth.

Unwrapping it, Jon could make out, from his position ten feet away, what looked to be bread in the shape of a wolf.

“Thank you, Hotpie, it’s looks...lovely.” 

They were interrupted by the tall figure of Sansa, her red hair flowing with the wind. “If you need directions, you can ask one of the guards, Lady Stark is very busy.”

Hotpie appeared startled by the interruption, while Arya glared at Sansa.

“Don’t call me that!” Arya retorted angrily, “He wasn’t asking for directions. Sansa, this is my friend Hotpie. Hotpie, this is my sister, _Lady_ Stark.”Sansa gave Arya an unimpressed glance but Arya remained undeterred. “Hotpie and I were friends when we were children.”

Unaware of the delicate etiquette that was meeting a Lady of a Great House, Hotpie reached out his hand for Sansa to shake. “That’s right, I knew Arry when she was a boy. I mean, she was pretending to be a boy, but was actually a girl... You see we were captured together and taken prisoner by the Lannisters.”

Behind Sansa, Brienne of Tarth trudged up to her charge. Hotpie, still holding his hand out, smiled. “Lady knight! You _do_ work for the Starks. I’m glad Arry, I mean, Arya.. I mean, Lady Arya, found you.”

“Ah, Pie was it?”

“Hotpie, yeah, that’s me.” 

“It’s a pleasure, but Lady Stark has some things she must attend to.”

Sansa dipped her head politely, but bade farewell gratefully and followed Brienne. Believing they were alone, once again, Hotpie leaned in to Arya.

Jon strained to hear, “Arry, I’ve seen him, _Gendry_ is here.”

Jon frowned. _Gendry, Robert Baratheon’s bastard son? Why would Arya know or care about him?_

“I know, Hotpie. We’ve been re-acquainted.” _How did Arya know Gendry?_

“What did your brother say about you and Gendry?”

Arya hushed him, pulling him to the side and glancing around quickly. Jon ducked beneath the crowd, hoping she hadn’t seen him in her haste. “Nothing, there’s nothing for him to know now.”

“What are you talking about?! Of course there is. What about how all of us met? And how we escaped Harrenhal? Why wouldn’t you tell you’re brother about that?”

Arya ducked her head, in an uncharacteristic display of emotions. When she looked up again, Jon could make out a faint blush on her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it’s in the past.”

Hotpie smiled conspiratorially, uncharacteristically observant. He hefted the bag of grain and flour back onto his back, “Best be getting these to the kitchens, but it’s been good seeing you, Arry.”

Jon’s confusion was strong. From a small interaction he now knew that Arya, his sister, and Gendry, someone he considered a friend, knew each other but neither had thought to mention it to him. _What was so wrong about their friendship that neither told him they knew the other?_

Hotpie and Arya knew each other as children, the boy had said they’d been in Harrenhal together so that would have been when Arya was around one and ten, no older than two and ten. He assumed Gendry must have known her around this time, since the three of them knew each other. Hotpie’s blasé comment asking if Jon knew about it implied there was more to know.

Jon’s fist clenched. _He best not be implying what I think he is._ Comrade in arms or not, if Gendry had taken advantage of his little sister when she was but two and ten, he would kill him...with his bare hands.

_Well, I’m going to find out._

****

Jon had been having a number of revelations today, from Arya and Gendry knowing each other to the world-changing information from Bran that he was not actually the son of Ned Stark but really a Targaryen.

_It’s been quiet the shock inducer._

He didn’t know what to do with that information. He had initially planned on telling Daenerys, but with everything going on around them he decided it was prudent to wait until after the Long Night. _Who knows, if I die it might never even be relevant to the Queen at all._

Instead he focused on the jobs around him, he still had a vast amount of fortification of the castle before the Dead were expected to arrive and he was absolutely determined to be distracted and _not_ think of his newly discovered status as a Targaryen.

He was doing everything in his power to avoid Daenerys. So, once finally free of his duties, he decided to procrastinate by focussing on something else: How did his sister -or well, his _cousin_, he supposed- know Gendry?

And so, this was how he found himself striding down into the forge, looking for the bastard Blacksmith on the evening before the Long Night. 

The heat of the room momentarily overwhelmed him. Looking around he could see piles upon piles of dragon glass weapons, numerous Blacksmiths relentlessly hammering them into spear tips and swords.

But not the one he was looking for. Gendry wasn’t there. _Where was he?_

After looking for half an hour, he found himself down in the cellars, clutching at straws. He’d been told by Brienne that Arya had set up targets down there to practice her archery. _Some things never change._

Moving into the room, he froze at what he saw.

There in the corner of the cellar floor, lay a naked Arya in the arms of Gendry, covered by a flimsy stretch of cloth. Both had their eyes closed, as though asleep, but with his entrance Arya’s eyes snapped open, she held a dagger in her hand expectantly. Her eyes met his. 

They widened instantaneously and she sat up, holding the cloth to cover her chest as she did.

Gendry stirred with Ary’s movement, face turning towards her, only to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Fear spread across Gendry’s face immediately, and he tried to move away from Arya.

White hot rage filled Jon._ “How dare you?”_

Jon withdrew his sword, intent on maiming, if not outright killing, the fiend in front of him.

“Jon, no!”

Uncaring of her nakedness, Arya scrambled up, putting herself in front of Jon’s sword.

Jon averted his eyes, horrified. But in the seconds he’d taken to he’d seen numerous stab wounds scattered on Arya’s body. _Who did that?_

Gendry, who had hastily put on his trousers, rushed forwards and dropped the blanket over Arya. Jumping back as soon as he had, his eyes fixed on Jon’s sword.

“Arya, get out of my way.” He attempted to side-step her to get to his target, but Arya matched him step-for-step.

“Leave him be, Gendry has done nothing wrong.”

Jon felt his heart beating wildly. _Done nothing wrong? The man had defiled his sist-cousin- and she was telling him he had done nothing wrong?!_

The movement caused her blanket jostle, slipping down her shoulder. Speedily, Jon de-cloaked and wrapped his own cloak around her firmly. He kept his sword gripped tightly in his hands.

Talking quietly to her, keeping an eye of Gendry as he did to ensure he did scarper. “Arya, I can see what he has done-“

“I _asked_ him to.”

“What?!”

For the first time, Jon looked down at Arya properly. She didn’t appear distressed, only angry, and maybe... embarrassed. She wasn’t thanking him for getting her away from Gendry, nor looking at Gendry with the disgust someone may look at a rapist, like Sansa had looked at Ramsay.

“I said, I asked him to.”

His mind flickered to her awaking with a dagger in-hand, had Gendry attacked her she would have used it, he knew she could. But even with that, she could have been coerced or blackmailed. There was more than one way to force someone to do something they did not want to.

“I don’t believe you, no matter your distaste for etiquette, I know you wouldn’t ask a random man to-to-“

“He’s NOT a some random man!” Arya was staring at him, imploring him to listen. “Jon, please. I have known Gendry for _years_. We escaped King’s Landing and Harrenhal together and he is one of the most honourable men I know. Gendry didn’t force me to do anything I did not want him to.” She knew this was hard for her brother to hear, the last she had seen him she had been a child, been ‘Arya Underfoot’. It must be hard to reconcile that with the woman in-front of him.

Jon finally glanced at Gendry, semi-clothed and fearfully standing as far out of reach as possible, and back at Arya.

“Alright. But Arya,” He dropped his voice even lower, so Gendry could not overhear, ”Tell me truthfully, when you were younger did he _ever_-?” 

“No! No- Today was the first time, brother, I swear!” She talked over him, clearly rushed, not wanting him to think ill of Gendry. 

“Trust me when I say,” She smirked up at him, ”He took some convincing.” 

Jon returned her smirk, with his own semi-digusted look, which caused her smirk to broaden into a smile.

“Good.” 

He looked over at Gendry and glared, just for good measure. His hand still gripped his sword, Gendry gulped. 

****

He had declined from leaving the two alone, despite Arya’s claims that_ ‘Everything was fine’_, and instead settled on a group, _fully clothed_ discussion.

Once realising he had calmed considerably, Gendry had sat down next to Arya (although he sat out of touching distance, just in case). Arya had begun telling Jon of how they met, how Gendry had realised she was a girl and protected her. And of how she, in turn, protected him from the Lannisters. She told him of how they’d escaped Harrenhal, although she skirted around _who_ had helped them, and how they had been separated when the Brotherhood sold Gendry off to the Red Witch.

“The Red Witch? As in Melisandre?”

Arya startled, sharing a look with Gendry, “Yes, why?” 

Jon slumped, Westeros appeared to be a smaller place than he remembered; no-one claims to have seen Arya in years and then, all at once, he discovers she had been with _everyone_: Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Hound and _The Red Witch_.

“It’s just... she was the one to bring me back to life. After they stabbed me.”

He proceeded to tell Arya, and by extension Gendry, of how Men (and Ollie) and the Night’s Watch had mutinied and murdered him. Of how he’d awoken from the darkness atop a table, stab wounds over his heart.

“I’ll have scars from that for however long I live.” Which, considering the Long Night ahead of them, might not be as long as he wanted it to be. He thought of Arya, the scars he’d seen on her stomach.

“I saw your scars, Arya. What happened?”

Jon saw Gendry’s piqued interest and, despite knowing it was all consensual, he felt a flicker of brotherly anger at knowing how _he’d_ seen her scars.

Arya remained quiet, causing Jon to regret his question. Backtracking, he began to stutter out, “Arya, you don’t have to-“

“It’s fine. A girl can tell her story.”

Gendry stiffened beside him. Jon glanced at him, finding himself worried at the concern in the other man’s eyes.

“I know Sansa told you, Jon.” She looked at him and his expression, nodding at the confirmation in his eyes. “Gendry, you remember the man who helped us escape Harrenhal?” 

“Yes.”

“When he did, he offered me a coin. He told me if ever I wanted find him again, or learn what he could do, I could give it to any man from Braavos and say the words ‘_Valar Morghulis’._”

Jon felt a stirring of recognition, he’d heard her say that before. To the two Unsullied. “What does it mean?”

“It’s High Valerian, it means ‘All men must die.’ When I left the Hound to die, I thought I had no-one left. So I went to Braavos. I become a Faceless Man.”

“But that doesn’t explain the scars.” Gendry spoke quietly, as though he didn’t want to interrupt the ambience and scare her away, or stop her from speaking.

“I failed, I couldn’t forget what I had left behind. So I tried to leave, but you can’t take the secrets of the House of Black and White and tell anyone. So they sent the Waif after me. She tried to kill me and these-“, She waved her hand vaguely down at her stomach, “-these were the result.”

“And after you killed her, they just let you leave?” 

“I-I don’t know.” Arya looked down uneasily. “They didn’t kill me. If they’d really wanted me dead, they could. They can change faces, literally become anyone. If they wanted me dead, I would be... I don’t know what they want from me.”

Gendry felt a shiver of fear and apprehension go down his spine. He didn’t have to look over at Jon to know that he felt the same.

“We can protect you now.”

Arya smiled sadly. “Nobody can protect me.” Jon felt a strong sense of déjà vu, as he recalled Sansa saying the same words not long prior.

“If they let you leave, they must have a reason... I’m just glad they did.” 

Exchanging smiles, they eased into further conversation.Gendry, Arya and Jon bantering as if they’d always been life-long friends. Gendry and Arya chiding Jon into admitting his swift but intense relationship with Ygritte and verbally describing his friendship and brotherhood with Tormund and Samwell.

The final night before the Long Night was one that he would treasure as long as he lived.

However long that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be 1 more chapter after this. 
> 
> Please read and review.


	3. What You do When You Kill The Night King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night ends. What happens next?

The Long Night, that’s what everything had built-up to. He wished he could say it had been easy, that it had been over in one night and that the loses they’d had were minimal. But that was not to be.

As the dust settled, Jon stared around at the destruction of his home. The fires and bodies surrounded him, mounds of people who had lost their lives to the White Walkers. The shards of glass the once made up the army of the Dead littered the ground around him, crunching as he got to his feet.

His arms ached as his adrenaline began ebbing, making it hard to hold up his sword.

Walking through the destruction, he stared upon the faces of the dead, hoping not to see someone he recognised but knowing that it was inevitable.

“Jon!”

He swivelled, his heart in his throat, only to come face-to-face with Davos of House Seaworth.

The man was covered in grime, blood and sweat, much the same as Jon himself was.

“Davos.” He reached out to the man, his hand landing firmly on Davos’ shoulder. His relief at seeing a familiar, and friendly, face palpable.

“What happened?”

Davos’ question echoed what Jon, himself, was thinking. Clearly the battle had been won, but the question remained: _how?_

But beyond that, he had to know, _who survived? Were his family okay? _Bran_. Bran would know._

“Bran. Where’s Bran?!”

Jon and Davos, hurried through the ruins of Winterfell, those dead and alive strewn on the floor. Finally, reaching the Godswood, they saw an ever increasing amount of ice shards on the floor.

Jon’s heart pounded. _Was it too late? Was Bran okay?_

Moving out into the open of the wood, he glimpsed the back of Bran’s head in the distance. He started jogging towards him, but was halted as he came across the slain body of none other than, Theon Greyjoy.

Theon, despite all his failings, had been as close to a brother as possible. He had grown up with all the Stark children, played with them and, at the end of the day, been the one who had helped save Sansa from the hellhole she’d found herself in. He had been there at the end, had fought to protect the Stark House and he had died for it. _I’m so sorry, Sansa._

“He died a good man.”

“Bran.” He breathed, finally looking back to up to see Bran facing him, but five feet away. _Alive_. “You’re alive.”

He, finally, dropped his sword, letting it clattered uselessly to the ground, as he hugged his cousin tightly. He broke it off to ask the question he desperately needed to know the answer to, “Sansa and Arya, are they alive?”

Bran smiled, emotionlessly. “Yes, they’re alive.”

Jon’s face crumpled, unable to contain himself, and he hugged Bran again. Gripping the back of Bran’s coat tightly in his fists, willing this to be real.

“_How?! _How did we win? There were so many of them.”

“It was Arya.”

“What?” He whispered, unable to comprehend what Bran had just said. He felt Davos shift behind him.

“Arya killed the Night King. She stabbed him.” Bran stared at him, his eyes piercing as he spoke his next words, _“She stuck him with the pointy end.”_

Arya had been the one to save them all. Everything that had happened in her life had led to this. Distantly he couldn’t help put think: _Ned Stark _\- the man who would always be his Father, no matter his heritage - _Father, would have been proud._

Davos’ Northern brogue broke the silence, “I could believe that. That girl’s a fighter alright.”

“You saw her?”

Jon’s attention shifted to Davos, keen for any knowledge of his dearest cousin.

“Aye, she was out in the courtyard with her staff. I saw her fight, I’ve never seen such grace in a fight before.”

“And she didn’t look hurt?”

“No. She looked frightening.” Jon huffed, laughing for the first time since this nightmare began.

“I could believe that.”

****

They had begun their trek back towards the castle, pushing Bran along, when Gendry ran towards them. His arms were bruised, and he had a cut bleeding heavily on his shoulder.

“Jon. Arya, where is she? Is she-“ The man looked fearful, panicked in a way that made Jon’s heart hurt.

“She’s alive, Gendry.” He moved from behind Bran, holding Gendry’s shoulders as he broke the news. “Bran said she’s alive.”

“Oh, thank the Gods.” Just like Jon’s own, Gendry’s face crumpled at the news.

From metres away, Jon spotted the Hound leaning heavily against a wall, looking worse for wear. “The little bitch survived?”

Coarse words aside, there was genuine relief imbued in his words. “Good. Very good.”

It made Jon glad, realising that no matter where Arya had been these past few years, she had managed to touch the lives of so many.

****

Finally, Jon found himself in the Great Hall.

He had encountered Sansa along the way, she had told him, to his dismay, of the battle in the crypts. She spoke of how the Undead had ripped women and children apart, how so few had survived. Tyrion was with her, declining to leave her side, a harrowed expression on his face. Jon had in turn informed her of her brother and sister’s survival, though they had yet to see Arya themselves.

There were still so many unaccounted for, the Queen herself for one. Jon figured if they began recuperating, that they would need a base point, so he’d assigned the Great Hall as such.

He send a couple of Dothraki and Unsullied to fan out and look for any signs of the Queen. He sent other soldiers to start bring the wounded to the Hall, for healing, and others to begin clearing paths for the wounded to be dragged along. 

It was during all this that he saw her. _Arya._

“Arya!” 

Jon was pushed to the side, as Sansa hastened to hug her younger sister. Arya returned the hug willingly, embracing her with as much force. Arya pulled back, taking note of Sansa’s disheveled state.

“Did you have to use it?” Arya’s voice came out strained and slightly croaky.

Sansa shakily nodded, pulling out a dragon glass knife. “They awoke those in the crypt. It was a massacre.”She held out the knife, for Arya to take.

Arya held Sansa’s gaze and pushed the hand holding the knife back towards Sansa.

“I’m sorry you had to use it. But keep it. It’s yours.”

Arya shifted her attention, looking towards Jon. Each assessed the other a moment. Jon could see the grime on Arya’s face, she now had a deep cut on her forehead that was bleeding weakly. As he moved closer he could make out marks around her throat. They were deep red, like burn marks, in the shape of fingers.

“Arya, is that-?”

“The Night King. He strangled me.”

Sansa gasped, horrified. Jon struggled to breathe, the thought that the Night King had been so close to Arya that he had managed to strangle her with his cold, bare hands chilled him to the bone.

He grabbed her, pulling her into a life-affirming hug. He held his arm open and Sansa joined in. The three of them hugging each other tightly, not willing to let go.

****

They had begun the repair and slow recovery of Winterfell.

They had suffered extreme losses, including: Jaime Lannister, Theon Greyjoy, Beric Dondarrion, The Red Witch, Grey Worm, Jorah Mormont and, the Queen herself, Daenerys Targaryen.

And those were just the highborn, or those of the guard. There had been immense losses of the common folk. Those who had been hidden within the confines of the crypts had been slaughtered. Both Northerners, Unsullied, Wildlings and Dothraki had suffered.

But it was over. And it was time to think of the next step. 

They still had one dragon, one that could understand Tyrion and Jon enough to know that his mother was dead. He was cognizant enough to understand them, that was good enough for them.

The Wildling army had left, refusing to fight further with them down South, wanting to return home. Jon had let them, who was he to tell them they had to sacrifice eve more lives for a War that was not their own?

The Unsullied and Dothraki, too. Though some decided to stay and help with the recovery, now that their Queen was dead and gone, they had no real reason to remain. Missandei, from the Isle of Narth, devastated at the death of her lover had decided, also, to return to her homeland. And so the masses of people, who had stood together against the Undead, began to leave.

With their assets, they had half an army of Northerners remaining and around a quarter of the Dothraki and Unsullied, respectively, who had decided to stay. And, of course, a dragon.

They did not want to burn King’s Landing to the ground. They wanted a surrender.

They needed a plan.

Within the confines of Winterfell’s Great Hall, sat those who were left: Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Davos of House Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth, Samwell Tarly, Gendry Waters, Lyanna Mormont and Bronn.

“We must march on King’s Landing. We need to take control and remove Cersei, otherwise we’ll never be free.” Sansa stood at the forefront of the long table, looking around at the men and women surrounding them. “But we are not at our full strength right now, we need time. Time for the men to rest and gather supplies. We cannot send them to fight right away.”

“Why send an army at all?” 

Everyone looked at Arya, as she posed the question. “If Cersei dies, then there’s no need for a war. The only other Lannister is Tyrion and he’s said himself he would not want to be ruler.”

“You’re suggesting assassination.” Jon replied, internally rejecting the option outright. 

“You’re suggesting an all-out battle with hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives lost for the same outcome.”

Jon, and many others around the small council, appeared discomforted by the words.

Tyrion assessed the young girl opposite him, amusement upwelling, despite the seriousness of the conversation. “You’re reminding me more of my Father than I care to think.”

“Your Father was a smart man. We might have been on different sides but I can say, I admired your Father greatly, including how he conducted his small council meetings.”

Tyrion paused, confusedly. “And how would you have met my Father or been part of his small council meetings, for that matter, considering you were the sister of his enemies and presumed dead at the time?”

Sansa and Jon shared similar knowing looks, aware that while they now knew of Arya’s escapades through Westeros everyone else was blissfully unaware of how far her reach extended.

“I was one of his prisoners in Harrenhal for a while. I was his cupbearer.”

Tyrion began to laugh, a slow building but genuine laugh. “He had one of the Stark daughters prisoner and _he didn’t even know it_, and he always thought he was so observant.” 

“He, also, had Gendry. Robert Baratheon’s bastard son as a prisoner, as well.” Arya pointed out, only adding to Tyrion’s merriment, though she supposed the wine also helped.

“Look, we must focus.” Jon interrupted, not enjoying breaking up the fun but found it necessary. “We need to decide what we want to do. And who we want to lead us.”

At his statement chaos erupted throughout the room.

“What do you mean?”

“Who to lead us? You will!”

“It has to be you! Who else would we have?”

People were clamouring to talk over one another, trying to get answers but only succeeding in adding to the noise. Only Sansa and Arya abstained, Jon having told them the night before of his true birth origins. He claimed that he had seen what happened when his family got into power and he wanted no part in it. Having no comeback to that, they could only accept his decision and remind him that no matter what, he was family, _pack_, and they loved him.

“Sansa.”

Everyone fell silent as Jon answered, all turning to either the man or woman in question.

“What?” Sansa spoke, heart in chest, overwhelmed. It wasn’t as though it was completely unexpected, given Jon’s current predicament; however, for him to push _her_ to reign so bluntly was heartwarming.

“You could lead us.” Jon looked around at all those gathered. “If we win, you would. We all know I never wanted to. I’m built to lead in battle, not in politics. Sansa, you are meant to be Queen. Both in the North and the South. _You would be an amazing Queen._”

“All those in favour of Sansa Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, say aye.” Lyanna Mormont declared decisively. 

A chorus of ‘Aye’s echoed around the room, none but Bran noticing Arya’s exit of the room.

****

It had been three days since Arya left.

Jon and Gendry had been beside themselves when they’d noticed her disappearance. Sansa had simply sighed, accepting Arya’s restless and determined nature. It had taken Davos and Tyrion to talk them down from going after her, instead taking them to question Bran on her whereabouts and he had confirmed what they’d guessed: she had gone South to kill the Queen. What had surprised them, however, was that the Hound was accompanying her.

It had set Gendry’s teeth on edge. 

Surprisingly, Sansa spoke up for the Hound. “He isn’t evil, he mightn’t be what you’d call a good man but he is honourable in his own way. He saved my life and honour when I was captive in King’s Landing and from Arya’s own mouth she said she owed a lot to the Hound. He _will_ look after her.”

Davos had laughed in response, “I don’t think that girl needs looking after. I swear, I saw her fight a swarm of White Walkers with her eyes _closed_.”

Jon had joined in the laughter, “I think even Arya, the Night-King-Slayer, would need her eyes open.” Though it warmed him to know how highly others regarded her fighting.

“Arya doesn’t need her eyes at all.”

The laughter died out.

Silently, they turned to regard Bran, who had been sitting in the corner of the room. He spoke, as he often did these days, without inflection. Nothing to give away if he was talking in jest or actually speaking from something he’d ‘seen’.

“Bran, what are you talking about? Everyone needs their eyes open to fight.” Gendry said what those around him were thinking.

Bran regarded each of them, coolly. “When training with the Faceless Men, they took her sight from her for a time. She learned to see without eyes.”

“You’re telling us that the Faceless Men _blinded_ Arya?”

“Yes, they blinded her. They cast her out to live on the streets and beat her, eventually she learned to fight back and to see without her eyes.”

Horror flooded through Jon at the thought of his sister blind and helpless living on the streets.

“_Why?!”_

“They took her sight for her killing someone she wasn’t told to.” Bran paused, making Jon wonder if there was a little of the old Bran in him, if only for the determinedness of his theatrics. “Meryn Trant.”

Sansa sucked a breath in. “She killed Meryn Trant?!”

Simultaneously Gendry questioned, “The man from her List?”

Jon glanced at each of them, confused. “Who’s Meryn Trant?”

It was Tyrion who answered. “He was one of Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard, back in the day. But why Lady Arya felt so strongly about him to kill him against the wishes of her order, I don’t know.”

Once again, Bran was the one filling the gaps of knowledge they had. “He killed her dancing master, Syrio Forel, the first sword of Braavos. The man fought to give her enough time to flee when she first escaped King’s Landing.”

“Her dancing master... I remember her not wanting to leave King’s Landing because she wanted to stay for him.” Sansa spoke, he voice quiet, as though in the throws of a memory. “I remember telling her that her stupid dancing master didn’t matter. But afterwards, I was confused because she’d always hated dancing.”

Gendry chuckled meekly, “He wasn’t teaching her proper dance, it was the Water Dance of Braavos. Sword fighting.”

_That, admittedly, is easier to believe than Arya actually wanting to learn how to dance._ Jon thought to himself.

“So, she really did fight those Whites with her eyes closed?” Tyrion poured himself a tall drink, “I wouldn’t want to be my sister right about now then.”

With that he toasted to the group and downed the drink.

****

It was only a few days later, when they heard the news. Cersei Lannister was dead. She had been stabbed in the heart.

Jon didn’t doubt who did it, but he didn’t know whether it made him happy or if it saddened him that his sister had been in that position again: killing to make others happy.

With Cersei’s death, the forces in King’s Landing had surrendered and the motions for Sansa’s coronation were being put into place. She was to live in King’s Landing after the coronation and Jon was to remain in the North, as warden of the North. Tyrion was going with Sansa to King’s Landing to act as her Hand. 

They were delaying the departure, though, and both Jon and Sansa knew why; they were waiting for Arya to return.

Both knew her nature well enough by this point to know that she wouldn’t stay in Winterfell and become a Lady and marry a Lord. But each were hoping that she’d at least return before leaving to say goodbye.

The days past by, becoming a week, and Sansa couldn’t put it off any longer. The courtyard was full of people biding her farewell, the throng included: Northerners, Wildlings who had stayed, Dothraki and Unsullied. Everyone except the very person she wanted to see, _Arya_.

Jon stood by her side, in the courtyard of Winterfell, surrounded by snow, the wind howling around them.

“I will miss you, brother.”

She smiled conspiratorially at him as she said it, knowing he would accept the acknowledgment for what it was. Despite his birth, he would always be her brother.

“I will miss you too, sister.” Jon pulled her into a hug, savouring the feeling of family around him. Quietly, as they embraced, he whispered to her, “I’m sure, if he were here, Theon would be proud. Father too.”

As Sansa pulled away, Jon glimpsed tears in her eyes, unshed but present.

She blinked, and the emotion was gone.

Getting into the carriage, Ser Brienne stepping in beside her, Sansa took one last look at her home.

From outside the walls, a howl sounded.

The sound was followed by a thunderous chorus of returning howls. 

As the carriage pulled out of Winterfell, she could see by the edge line of the trees an army of wolves, around 100 of them. In front stood a giant direwolf.

Despite the years gone-by, Sansa instantly recognised Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf. Nymeria reared back, only to reveal the outline of Arya on her back. 

Arya pulled her head back and howled, Nymeria copying a second later. The series of howls re-started, but this time their intent was clear: they were saying goodbye to Sansa Stark.

As Arya said goodbye to Sansa, she turned, still mounted on Nymeria, and smiled at Jon. Jon knew, in that moment, that Arya wouldn’t be coming back.

“Where’s she going?”

Gendry moved forwards, as though to go after Arya, but Jon stopped him.

“She’s going home, Gendry. She’s going to the wild.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support and amazing reviews that people have left me! I love each and every one of them. 
> 
> All the kudos’ and bookmarks are appreciated.
> 
> This is the final chapter, however, if people want to send me any one-shot requests for people finding other things out (maybe even other character POVs, or even people finding out about the things Sansa has done etc.).


	4. What If: Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Arya stays around for Gendry - an alternate ending

The Long Night, that’s what everything had built-up to. He wished he could say it had been easy, that it had been over in one night and that the loses they’d had were minimal. But that was not to be.

As the dust settled, Jon stared around at the destruction of his home. The fires and bodies surrounded him, mounds of people who had lost their lives to the White Walkers. The shards of glass the once made up the army of the Dead littered the ground around him, crunching as he got to his feet.

His arms ached as his adrenaline began ebbing, making it hard to hold up his sword.

Walking through the destruction, he stared upon the faces of the dead, hoping not to see someone he recognised but knowing that it was inevitable.

“Jon!”

He swivelled, his heart in his throat, only to come face-to-face with Davos of House Seaworth.

The man was covered in grime, blood and sweat, much the same as Jon himself was.

“Davos.” He reached out to the man, his hand landing firmly on Davos’ shoulder. His relief at seeing a familiar, and friendly, face palpable.

“What happened?”

Davos’ question echoed what Jon, himself, was thinking. Clearly the battle had been won, but the question remained: _how?_

But beyond that, he had to know, _who survived? Were his family okay? _Bran_. Bran would know._

“Bran. Where’s Bran?!”

Jon and Davos, hurried through the ruins of Winterfell, those dead and alive strewn on the floor. Finally, reaching the Godswood, they saw an ever increasing amount of ice shards on the floor.

Jon’s heart pounded. _Was it too late? Was Bran okay? _

Moving out into the open of the wood, he glimpsed the back of Bran’s head in the distance. He started jogging towards him, but was halted as he came across the slain body of none other than, Theon Greyjoy.

Theon, despite all his failings, had been as close to a brother as possible. He had grown up with all the Stark children, played with them and, at the end of the day, been the one who had helped save Sansa from the hellhole she’d found herself in. He had been there at the end, had fought to protect the Stark House and he had died for it. _I’m so sorry, Sansa._

“He died a good man.”

“Bran.” He breathed, finally looking back to up to see Bran facing him, but five feet away. _Alive_. “You’re alive.”

He, finally, dropped his sword, letting it clattered uselessly to the ground, as he hugged his cousin tightly. He broke it off to ask the question he desperately needed to know the answer to, “Sansa and Arya, are they alive?”

Bran smiled, emotionlessly. “Yes, they’re alive.”

Jon’s face crumpled, unable to contain himself, and he hugged Bran again. Gripping the back of Bran’s coat tightly in his fists, willing this to be real.

“_How?! _How did we win? There were so many of them.”

“It was Arya.”

“What?” He whispered, unable to comprehend what Bran had just said. He felt Davos shift behind him.

“Arya killed the Night King. She stabbed him.” Bran stared at him, his eyes piercing as he spoke his next words, _“She stuck him with the pointy end.”_

Arya had been the one to save them all. Everything that had happened in her life had led to this. Distantly he couldn’t help put think: _Ned Stark _\- the man who would always be his Father, no matter his heritage - _Father, would have been proud. _

Davos’ Northern brogue broke the silence, “I could believe that. That girl’s a fighter alright.”

“You saw her?”

Jon’s attention shifted to Davos, keen for any knowledge of his dearest cousin.

“Aye, she was out in the courtyard with her staff. I saw her fight, I’ve never seen such grace in a fight before.”

“And she didn’t look hurt?”

“No. She looked frightening.” Jon huffed, laughing for the first time since this nightmare began.

“I could believe that.”

****

They had begun their trek back towards the castle, pushing Bran along, when Gendry ran towards them. His arms were bruised, and he had a cut bleeding heavily on his shoulder.

“Jon. Arya, where is she? Is she-“ The man looked fearful, panicked in a way that made Jon’s heart hurt.

“She’s alive, Gendry.” He moved from behind Bran, holding Gendry’s shoulders as he broke the news. “Bran said she’s alive.”

“Oh, thank the Gods.” Just like Jon’s own, Gendry’s face crumpled at the news.

From metres away, Jon spotted the Hound leaning heavily against a wall, looking worse for wear. “The little bitch survived?”

Coarse words aside, there was genuine relief imbued in his words. “Good. Very good.”

It made Jon glad, realising that no matter where Arya had been these past few years, she had managed to touch the lives of so many.

****

Finally, Jon found himself in the Great Hall.

He had encountered Sansa along the way, she had told him, to his dismay, of the battle in the crypts. She spoke of how the Undead had ripped women and children apart, how so few had survived. Tyrion was with her, declining to leave her side, a harrowed expression on his face. Jon had in turn informed her of her brother and sister’s survival, though they had yet to see Arya themselves.

There were still so many unaccounted for, the Queen herself for one. Jon figured if they began recuperating, that they would need a base point, so he’d assigned the Great Hall as such.

He send a couple of Dothraki and Unsullied to fan out and look for any signs of the Queen. He sent other soldiers to start bring the wounded to the Hall, for healing, and others to begin clearing paths for the wounded to be dragged along.

It was during all this that he saw her. _Arya._

“Arya!”

Jon was pushed to the side, as Sansa hastened to hug her younger sister. Arya returned the hug willingly, embracing her with as much force. Arya pulled back, taking note of Sansa’s disheveled state.

“Did you have to use it?” Arya’s voice came out strained and slightly croaky.

Sansa shakily nodded, pulling out a dragon glass knife. “They awoke those in the crypt. It was a massacre.”She held out the knife, for Arya to take.

Arya held Sansa’s gaze and pushed the hand holding the knife back towards Sansa.

“I’m sorry you had to use it. But keep it. It’s yours.”

Arya shifted her attention, looking towards Jon. Each assessed the other a moment. Jon could see the grime on Arya’s face, she now had a deep cut on her forehead that was bleeding weakly. As he moved closer he could make out marks around her throat. They were deep red, like burn marks, in the shape of fingers.

“Arya, is that-?”

“The Night King. He strangled me.”

Sansa gasped, horrified. Jon struggled to breathe, the thought that the Night King had been so close to Arya that he had managed to strangle her with his cold, bare hands chilled him to the bone.

He grabbed her, pulling her into a life-affirming hug. He held his arm open and Sansa joined in. The three of them hugging each other tightly, not willing to let go.

****

They had begun the repair and slow recovery of Winterfell.

They had suffered extreme losses, including: Jaime Lannister, Theon Greyjoy, Beric Dondarrion, The Red Witch, Grey Worm, Jorah Mormont and, the Queen herself, Daenerys Targaryen.

And those were just the highborn, or those of the guard. There had been immense losses of the common folk. Those who had been hidden within the confines of the crypts had been slaughtered. Both Northerners, Unsullied, Wildlings and Dothraki had suffered.

But it was over. And it was time to think of the next step.

They still had one dragon, one that could understand Tyrion and Jon enough to know that his mother was dead. He was cognizant enough to understand them, that was good enough for them.

The Wildling army had left, refusing to fight further with them down South, wanting to return home. Jon had let them, who was he to tell them they had to sacrifice eve more lives for a War that was not their own?

The Unsullied and Dothraki, too. Though some decided to stay and help with the recovery, now that their Queen was dead and gone, they had no real reason to remain. Missandei, from the Isle of Narth, devastated at the death of her lover had decided, also, to return to her homeland. And so the masses of people, who had stood together against the Undead, began to leave.

With their assets, they had half an army of Northerners remaining and around a quarter of the Dothraki and Unsullied, respectively, who had decided to stay. And, of course, a dragon.

They did not want to burn King’s Landing to the ground. They wanted a surrender.

They needed a plan.

Within the confines of Winterfell’s Great Hall, sat those who were left: Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Davos of House Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth, Samwell Tarly, Gendry Waters, Lyanna Mormont and Bronn.

“We must march on King’s Landing. We need to take control and remove Cersei, otherwise we’ll never be free.” Sansa stood at the forefront of the long table, looking around at the men and women surrounding them. “But we are not at our full strength right now, we need time. Time for the men to rest and gather supplies. We cannot send them to fight right away.”

“Why send an army at all?”

Everyone looked at Arya, as she posed the question. “If Cersei dies, then there’s no need for a war. The only other Lannister is Tyrion and he’s said himself he would not want to be ruler.”

“You’re suggesting assassination.” Jon replied, internally rejecting the option outright.

“You’re suggesting an all-out battle with hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives lost for the same outcome.”

Jon, and many others around the small council, appeared discomforted by the words.

Tyrion assessed the young girl opposite him, amusement upwelling, despite the seriousness of the conversation. “You’re reminding me more of my Father than I care to think.”

“Your Father was a smart man. We might have been on different sides but I can say, I admired your Father greatly, including how he conducted his small council meetings.”

Tyrion paused, confusedly. “And how would you have met my Father or been part of his small council meetings, for that matter, considering you were the sister of his enemies and presumed dead at the time?”

Sansa and Jon shared similar knowing looks, aware that while they now knew of Arya’s escapades through Westeros everyone else was blissfully unaware of how far her reach extended.

“I was one of his prisoners in Harrenhal for a while. I was his cupbearer.”

Tyrion began to laugh, a slow building but genuine laugh. “He had one of the Stark daughters prisoner and _he didn’t even know it_, and he always thought he was so observant.”

“He, also, had Gendry. Robert Baratheon’s bastard son as a prisoner, as well.” Arya pointed out, only adding to Tyrion’s merriment, though she supposed the wine also helped.

“Look, we must focus.” Jon interrupted, not enjoying breaking up the fun but found it necessary. “We need to decide what we want to do. And who we want to lead us.”

At his statement chaos erupted throughout the room.

“What do you mean?”

“Who to lead us? You will!”

“It has to be you! Who else would we have?”

People were clamouring to talk over one another, trying to get answers but only succeeding in adding to the noise. Only Sansa and Arya abstained, Jon having told them the night before of his true birth origins. He claimed that he had seen what happened when his family got into power and he wanted no part in it. Having no comeback to that, they could only accept his decision and remind him that no matter what, he was family, _pack_, and they loved him.

“Sansa.”

Everyone fell silent as Jon answered, all turning to either the man or woman in question.

“What?” Sansa spoke, heart in chest, overwhelmed. It wasn’t as though it was completely unexpected, given Jon’s current predicament; however, for him to push _her_ to reign so bluntly was heartwarming.

“You could lead us.” Jon looked around at all those gathered. “If we win, you would. We all know I never wanted to. I’m built to lead in battle, not in politics. Sansa, you are meant to be Queen. Both in the North and the South. _You would be an amazing Queen._”

“All those in favour of Sansa Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, say aye.” Lyanna Mormont declared decisively.

A chorus of ‘Aye’s echoed around the room, none but Bran noticing Arya’s exit of the room.

****

It had been three days since Arya left.

Jon and Gendry had been beside themselves when they’d noticed her disappearance. Sansa had simply sighed, accepting Arya’s restless and determined nature. It had taken Davos and Tyrion to talk them down from going after her, instead taking them to question Bran on her whereabouts and he had confirmed what they’d guessed: she had gone South to kill the Queen. What had surprised them, however, was that the Hound was accompanying her.

It had set Gendry’s teeth on edge.

Surprisingly, Sansa spoke up for the Hound. “He isn’t evil, he mightn’t be what you’d call a good man but he is honourable in his own way. He saved my life and honour when I was captive in King’s Landing and from Arya’s own mouth she said she owed a lot to the Hound. He _will_ look after her.”

Davos had laughed in response, “I don’t think that girl needs looking after. I swear, I saw her fight a swarm of White Walkers with her eyes _closed_.”

Jon had joined in the laughter, “I think even Arya, the Night-King-Slayer, would need her eyes open.” Though it warmed him to know how highly others regarded her fighting.

“Arya doesn’t need her eyes at all.”

The laughter died out.

Silently, they turned to regard Bran, who had been sitting in the corner of the room. He spoke, as he often did these days, without inflection. Nothing to give away if he was talking in jest or actually speaking from something he’d ‘seen’.

“Bran, what are you talking about? Everyone needs their eyes open to fight.” Gendry said what those around him were thinking.

Bran regarded each of them, coolly. “When training with the Faceless Men, they took her sight from her for a time. She learned to see without eyes.”

“You’re telling us that the Faceless Men _blinded_ Arya?”

“Yes, they blinded her. They cast her out to live on the streets and beat her, eventually she learned to fight back and to see without her eyes.”

Horror flooded through Jon at the thought of his sister blind and helpless living on the streets.

“_Why?!”_

“They took her sight for her killing someone she wasn’t told to.” Bran paused, making Jon wonder if there was a little of the old Bran in him, if only for the determinedness of his theatrics. “Meryn Trant.”

Sansa sucked a breath in. “She killed Meryn Trant?!”

Simultaneously Gendry questioned, “The man from her List?”

Jon glanced at each of them, confused. “Who’s Meryn Trant?”

It was Tyrion who answered. “He was one of Robert Baratheon’s Kingsguard, back in the day. But why Lady Arya felt so strongly about him to kill him against the wishes of her order, I don’t know.”

Once again, Bran was the one filling the gaps of knowledge they had. “He killed her dancing master, Syrio Forel, the first sword of Braavos. The man fought to give her enough time to flee when she first escaped King’s Landing.”

“Her dancing master... I remember her not wanting to leave King’s Landing because she wanted to stay for him.” Sansa spoke, he voice quiet, as though in the throws of a memory. “I remember telling her that her stupid dancing master didn’t matter. But afterwards, I was confused because she’d always hated dancing.”

Gendry chuckled meekly, “He wasn’t teaching her proper dance, it was the Water Dance of Braavos. Sword fighting.”

_That, admittedly, is easier to believe than Arya actually wanting to learn how to dance._ Jon thought to himself.

“So, she really did fight those Whites with her eyes closed?” Tyrion poured himself a tall drink, “I wouldn’t want to be my sister right about now then.”

With that he toasted to the group and downed the drink.

****

It was only a few days later, when they heard the news. Cersei Lannister was dead. She had been stabbed in the heart.

Jon didn’t doubt who did it, but he didn’t know whether it made him happy or if it saddened him that his sister had been in that position again: killing to make others happy.

With Cersei’s death, the forces in King’s Landing had surrendered and the motions for Sansa’s coronation were being put into place. She was to live in King’s Landing after the coronation and Jon was to remain in the North, as warden of the North. Tyrion was going with Sansa to King’s Landing to act as her Hand.

They were delaying the departure, though, and both Jon and Sansa knew why; they were waiting for Arya to return.

As the days turned into weeks, Sansa and Jon became more and more anxious; they knew of Arya’s nature, that she might never be happy coming back to Winterfell and living life as a lady or marrying a lord. Jon had hoped that Arya’s relationship with Gendry might sway her to staying around longer, to potentially staying forever.

Finally, one night, from outside Winterfell howling could be heard. Peering out the window of his room, Jon could make out hoards of around 100 wolves, at the head of which he could make out a giant direwolf. Nymeria.

He began shouting for soldiers, hurrying down to the courtyard, with little regard for his state of undress.

As the gates opened, he saw Arya riding Nymeria towards the entrance of Winterfell and relief filled him.

“Arya.” His voice whispered brokenly. It was quiet, but Arya must have heard his through the howling winds; Nymeria’s pace quickened.

Once close enough, Arya threw herself at Jon, hugging him firmly.

“I was so worried you would return.”

“So was I.”

Pulling away, Jon gazed at her. “What made you come back?”

Arya eyes answered the question for her, as they focused on something behind Jon. Gendry.

“I guess I found something more important than adventures, I found family.”

And for the first time since her return to Westeros, Arya finally gave into happiness and launched herself into Gendry’s arms.

“My lady, you came back.”

“Of course I did, you stupid Bull.”


End file.
